The Way the Cornchip Crumbles
by orinette
Summary: Theresa LeMaise, once known as Cornchip Girl, has just entered her freshman year of high school. There she meets old friends, falls in love for the first time, and becomes the only thing that can keep lifelong friendships from breaking apart.
1. Freshman's Debut

_**Cornchip 1 Shot**_

The shrill sound of her father's whistle brought the sleeping girl back to reality. Her eyes flew open and she sat up straight in bed.

"Rise and shine, Theresa!" Lieutenant LeMaise rapped on her door. He didn't dare come in; now that his daughter was in her teens, he had finally started to respect her privacy. But he wasn't above waking her up in the morning—especially since today was her first day of high school.

"I'm up, Daddy," Theresa—once known as Cornchip Girl—called back, scrambling out of bed with a wide grin splitting her face. She had been looking forward to this day for four years; and now that it was finally here, she could hardly believe it.

She dashed into her en suite bathroom, across the bedroom that was as neat and orderly as it had been when her father had still made his weekly inspections. Theresa was a creature of habit, and keeping her things organized was just another routine for her.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom, she stopped in front of the mirror, checking out her reflection. Not a blemish in sight, not an uneven or dry part of her skin (though her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement). Her dark brown pixie-cut was a mess, but that was easily remedied. At fourteen, she was small for her age; she stood at five-foot-one and remained thin but relatively muscular due to the aerobics classes she was now taking with her best friend Lucille. Satisfied with her complexion, she tore off her clothes and jumped into the shower.

When she was clean, Theresa dried herself and quickly got dressed, pulling on a pair of dressy black jeans and a baby blue blouse. She towel-dried her hair, then combed it flat, parting it on the right and letting the ends flay out beneath her ears. She swiped the towel across the mirror to get rid of the fog and stole another quick glance at herself; she hesitated, and then opened a drawer, pulling out a seldom-used container of lip-gloss. Dabbing it on her lips, Theresa gave her mouth a smack and grinned at her reflection.

"High school at last," she murmured, and dashed downstairs for breakfast.

Her father was waiting for her at the dining table. There was a plate of fresh scrambled eggs on the table before him, he had the morning paper stretched out in front of his face and a cup of black coffee in his hand; the perfect picture of the typical American father.

Truth be told, Lieutenant Luke S. LeMaise was anything but the typical American father; for one thing, he was single. Penelope LeMaise had died when Theresa was only three, leaving her husband alone with a young son (Jacob, who had been ten at the time) and an even younger daughter. Luke had been a good father, if an unconventional one; adhering to his naval background, he had pulled a Von Trapp and taken to teaching his children a secret language of whistle calls. Jacob had rejected the idea, but Theresa had loved it. She responded readily to his whistling and even began whistling back. As she had gotten older, the novelty had worn off for both her and Luke, and the whistle-blowing had been reduced to short bursts when the Lieutenant wanted to call her in from another room.

Theresa sat down at the table and gave her father a quick peck on the cheek. He smiled at her. "You look lovely, sailor," he said.

"Thanks, Daddy," she smiled back.

The housekeeper, Daria, who had once been Theresa's nanny, slid a plate of eggs in front of her. Theresa grinned. "Thanks, Daria," she said happily, shoving a spoonful of the stuff into her mouth—in the politest way possible, of course.

"Well, well, somebody's hungry," Daria remarked, raising an eyebrow. "It's almost as if you're, I don't know… starting high school today, or something."

Theresa swallowed. "Was I that obvious?" she laughed.

"Like a lighthouse in the middle of the night," Luke LeMaise said dryly from behind his paper. Theresa could hear the smile in his voice.

She laughed again and finished her eggs as quickly as she could. Giving a kiss to Daria and another to her father, she waved goodbye and stepped out the door with a bag slung over her shoulder.

"Wish me luck," she said.

"Luck," Daria replied.

"Have a good day, Theresa," Luke called, putting the paper down and waving as his daughter scampered out the door.

The school was crowded—Theresa squeezed through the thick mass of students, most of them towering above her, until she finally reached the locker she had been assigned yesterday as part of the 1-hour introduction. She opened it, placing the lunch she had packed the night before neatly at the bottom. She shut the locker without further ado; she expected that she would have to organize the single shelf with her new textbooks by the end of the day.

She checked her wristwatch, an old military-grade digital that her father had given her when she was six. According to it, there were ten minutes left until homeroom. And only one minute and twenty-six seconds until…

"Corny!"

Theresa spun around to see a tall blonde boy approaching her. He was rather muscular and a full head and shoulders taller than her. He was wearing brown hiking boots, faded jeans, and a khaki army vest over a simple white t-shirt. His hair was still close-cropped, and he still wore those clunky, blue-rimmed glasses. It was the glasses, and the big goofy grin he wore, that gave him away more than anything.

"Gus!"

Theresa's laugh was almost choked out of her as her old friend caught her in a great big bear hug. Gus Griswald, once the smallest scaredy-cat Third Street Elementary had ever seen, had definitely hit his growth spurt.

As he set her down, Theresa caught her breath and gave him a mock stern look. "You're early," she said. "Is your watch off?"

"Nah", he chuckled, "I saw you from down the hall." He tapped the rim of his glasses and Theresa laughed again.

"I can't believe we're in the same school again," she said. "It feels like forever since you left Third Street."

"Yeah," Gus' voice cracked a little, and he coughed, attempting to deepen it. "Yeah," he repeated. "And look at you! You… haven't grown since fourth grade, have you?"

She giggled. "Shut up," she swatted his arm playfully. "I'm petite. It's cute."

"Whatever you say, Corny," he grinned.

She flinched and looked around to make sure nobody had heard. "Um, Theresa," she corrected him in a low voice.

His face fell a little. "Are you serious?"

"Well," Theresa was surprised to find herself feeling defensive, "I couldn't go into Middle School with a name like Cornchip Girl, could I?"

"I guess…" his brow furrowed, "wait, _Middle_ School? I was calling you Corny just a few months ago—how come you're only correcting me now?"

"We-ell, that was different. We were at Kelso's," Theresa shrugged. "I just… well, I'm not a kid anymore, Gus. It was bad enough when people still called me Cornchip in Middle School—I'm sick of being referred to as a snack."

Gus sighed, "Ok. Whatever you want."

Theresa felt bad. No matter that she was trying to distance herself from her reputation as Cornchip Girl, she didn't really mind when Gus called her by her old nickname. At least he said it with affection—everybody else simply hadn't bothered to learn her real name.

"Hey," she nudged him. "This only applies at school, 'kay? As soon as the final bell rings, you can call me Corny all you like."

He grinned. "I knew you couldn't resist," he leaned an arm against her locker. "You want me to show you around later?"

"Sure," she replied, even though she had already gotten a tour the day before. It was worth it to spend some more time with him; since Gus had left Third Street, they had been seeing each other less and less. They had met up at Kelso's every other day for the first couple of years, but as soon as Gus hit ninth grade, their meetings had been reduced to once every week or two. And with their fathers being the men-of-action that they were, the Griswald and LeMaise households were constantly on the move during the winter, spring, and summer vacations. As the years had gone by, they had grown apart, but Theresa still wanted them to stay close; after all, Gus _was_ her oldest friend.

Gus checked his watch—similar to hers but a completely different make. "First bell for homeroom should ring right abo-o-out… _now!"_

The trill of the bell overlapped with his final word.

"Niiice," Theresa grinned, impressed.

"So I'll meet you back here at lunch to show you around?" Gus said, backing into the fast-moving crowd.

"See you then," Theresa replied.

"Oh, almost forgot," he stepped out of the current of bodies and pressed a small box into the palm of her hand.

"By the way," he said as he slipped back into the mob, "your watch is eighteen seconds off!"

"Wha—?" Theresa checked her watch—he was right. She laughed and made a mental note to resynchronise at lunch. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the box Gus had given her and scuttled through the throngs of kids to her homeroom class a little further down the hallway.

As she stepped into the room and found herself a seat—the same one she had taken yesterday at the introduction—she opened her fist and inspected her gift. The box was the same colour as her shirt, with a thin ribbon wrapped around it. Theresa couldn't help a small flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach as she undid the ribbon and opened the box.

A pair of mother-of-pearl earrings sat atop the cotton cushion. Theresa gasped and picked one of them up; it was flat, and curved into the shape of—what else?—a corn chip. She laughed and put them on as the rest of the class filed into the room.

There was a note at the bottom of the box; beaming despite herself, Theresa pulled it out and read it:

_Welcome to Fifth Street High, Cornchip Girl!_


	2. Seperate

_Thanks for the reviews, guys! I AM naming the chapters, BTW, just not in the actual files, because I find it's easier to think of titles after the fact. Enjoy _

**Chapter 2**

The lunch bell cut through the air, making Theresa jump as her new math teacher, Mr. Dalton, was cut off.

"All right, class, you're dismissed," Mr. Dalton said mildly; he didn't have to tell them twice. Every student shouldered their bags and practically ran from the room. They were already dreading their next math period; Mr. Dalton was as dull as he was strict, and had made it perfectly clear to everyone that nothing other than math would be discussed or tolerated in his class.

Lucille, Theresa's best friend and (luckily) companion in 6 of her 8 courses, turned to her with a big grin. "Freedom!" she sighed, flicking her long, curly blonde hair behind her.

"You finally gonna introduce me to this Gus kid?" Lucille asked eagerly as they made their way to Theresa's locker.

"Yup," Theresa nodded. She was starting to get a little anxious. What if Gus and Lucille didn't like each other? It was pretty easy not to like Lucille; she had a good heart, but she could be rather forward and arrogant.

Theresa didn't have long to worry, it turned out; Gus was already at her locker, waiting for them. He grinned at Theresa and gave Lucille a small nod.

"This him, 'Rese? He's kinda cute," Lucille said before Theresa could even open her mouth. Gus' eyebrows flew up in surprise.

"Um, yes," Theresa nodded. She turned to Gus, "Hi. Thanks so much for these," she gestured to her earrings. "They're beautiful!"

"No problem," he gave her a wry smile and nodded at her friend. "Let me guess; Lucille?"

"You got it," she chuckled. "Lucille, Gus—Gus, Lucille."

"You're buffer than I thought you'd be," Lucille said matter-of-factly, looking Gus up and down admiringly. "I like it."

"So, Gus," Theresa gently nudged Lucille a couple of inches to the side, "you said you'd show me around; could Lucille come, too?"

"Yeah," Gus nodded, not looking at Lucille. He was blushing furiously and clearly trying not to smile.

Gus showed them around quickly; Theresa found herself taking a backseat in the conversation, which mostly consisted of Gus explaining what and where things were and Lucille interjecting with a clever joke or allusion to Gus' biceps. The former Cornchip Girl was getting increasingly irritated with both of them. Gus was _her_ friend, after all.

Finally, they had come full circle; stopping at Theresa's locker so that she could grab her lunch and then heading down to the cafeteria to eat. Theresa sat directly across from Gus, trying to keep Lucille off to the side.

"So, um, if you don't mind me asking," she began after swallowing the first bite of her sandwich, "where is everybody?"

"What d'you mean?" Gus gestured around the crowded cafeteria, "This place is crowded!"

"No, I mean, where are your friends? TJ, Mikey, Gretchen… where _are_ they?"

Gus frowned, and then sighed, his expression turning gloomy. "I forgot. You don't know."

"Know what?" Theresa was dreading his next words, but, all the same, she couldn't help but be a little glad that, for once, Lucille was keeping quiet.

"Well," Gus wasn't looking at her, "I haven't really hung out with them in a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Uh, about two years."

Theresa's mouth fell open. Suddenly she didn't really feel like finishing her sandwich. "Why?" she gasped. "What happened?"

Gus glanced at Lucille. "I don't wanna talk about this right now," he said quietly.

Theresa nodded. She knew better than to push him for information. Lucille's interest, however, had been piqued, despite the fact that she hadn't even heard of Gus' old friends until now.

"_What_ happened?" she echoed Theresa's question through a mouthful of frozen pizza.

"He doesn't want to talk about it, Lucille," Theresa said firmly.

"Oh, come on, I bet we'll hear about it anyways, I—"

"No, Co—Theresa's right. I'm not going to tell you," Gus said. "If you hear it from someone else, I don't care. But I don't want to talk about it."

The rest of lunch passed by quickly; once the subject of the old Third Street gang had been put to rest, the conversation had flowed relatively equally between the three of them. Lucille, busy eating, reduced her commentary somewhat, allowing Theresa to get a word in. They talked about school, mostly; about which teachers you wanted for what classes, about the social structure, about the difficulty of the mid-terms. When lunch was over, they parted ways, and Lucille and Theresa made their way to Science.

Their teacher, Mrs. Evans, gave the usual spiel; she handed out the course outline, gave them textbooks to sign out, and explained the breakdown of her grading process. Theresa and Lucille passed notes.

_Gus is cute ,_ Lucille wrote.

_I know,_ Theresa scribbled back, _you only said so about twenty times._

_Ooh, do I detect a hint of jealousy?_

_Don't be ridiculous. I just didn't like the fact that you were flirting with my only guy friend. _

_It's not like I wanna go out with him or anything. He's just cute, that's all._

_Whatever. Hey, this class might actually be fun—look at your outline; we're gonna be dissecting an eyeball!_

_EW. _

_Come on, it'll be cool._

_You're way too violent, 'Rese. _

_Comes with the Naval dad, Luce._

Lucille had to duck out 10 minutes early from the final period to make it to a dentist's appointment across time. As a result, Theresa was alone in their Art class when the final bell rang at 3:15. She reached into her bag's pocket for her iPod and headphones; getting to her feet, she glanced down at the iPod's screen to choose a song, and promptly walked right into someone.

"Hey! Watch it!" a familiar voice snapped as Theresa shoved her iPod and 'phones back in her pocket.

"Spinelli?" Theresa could hardly believe her eyes. Ashley Spinelli had never been particularly feminine in elementary school, but here she was, all curves and flashing dark eyes. Her black hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and despite the fact that she was clearly not wearing any makeup, her lips were bright pink and her skin was flawless.

And yet, despite it all, she had clearly not changed in any other way. Her right hand was raised in a fist towards her offender, and her eyes were narrowed angrily.

"What th—" Spinelli dropped her fist and squinted at Theresa. "Cornchip? Is that… is that you?"

"Hi, Spinelli," Theresa grinned and gave a little wave.


	3. Blumberg Spills

_Thanks for your reviews, follows, and extreme patience! As a reward, I give you a super-long chapter. I really want to keep going with this story, but life got in the way the past few months—I hope you all understand, and I promise that I'll be updating with more regularity from now on! _

**Chapter 3**

Spinelli gawked at Theresa in disbelief—Theresa smiled sheepishly back at her. She wasn't too surprised to have found Spinelli in the Art room; she had been a closet artist all throughout elementary school. However, she had thought that Mikey Blumberg, one of the most diversely talented kids Third Street had ever seen, would've been with her.

"I'd forgotten," Spinelli said. "Yeah… you're two grades below me, aren't you?"

"Yup," Theresa said. "It's good to see you, Spinelli. How've you been?"

Spinelli smiled and shrugged. "Can't complain. You, uh, you still hanging out with… Gus?"

She said his name hesitantly, as if she couldn't quite remember if it was right. Theresa was surprised; surely things hadn't changed so much after two years.

"Yeah, I am," she replied. "But… I heard that you haven't been. What happened, exactly?"

Spinelli's eyes flashed dangerously, but she kept her composure. "Nothing, really. I have to grab a painting, Cornchip—'scuse me."

She brushed past the younger girl, not meeting her eye. Theresa knew that Spinelli wasn't one to open up about that sort of thing—or _any_thing, really—but she had still expected some sort of explanation. If not the whole story, then at least a little snippet to satisfy inquiring minds. Spinelli had been famous for her wild excuses back in elementary school.

"I'll… I'll see you around, Cornchip," Spinelli said, a beautiful landscape painting in her hands. She was moving quickly, and Theresa had to admire the surprising grace with which she scrambled back out of the room. Her goodbye died on her lips as Spinelli turned a corner and disappeared.

_Well, that was pointless,_ Theresa thought bitterly.

She trudged towards the door, all ready to walk home when—

"Cornchip Girl?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Standing before her was the prettiest boy she'd ever seen. Not particularly _handsome_, but fine-featured and, well, a little effeminate. His mouth was pink and soft, like Spinelli's, and his hair framed his face in golden waves. Acne was spattered across his forehead, concealed at least somewhat by his bangs. Yet for all the changes his face had undergone, Mikey Blumberg had retained his infamous height and girth.

"Mikey?" Theresa knew it was him, but was hoping that being a little less forward would keep him around a bit longer than Spinelli.

There was laughter in his eyes, but he affected a sober expression.

"Actually, it's just _Michael_ now," he said, with theatrical flair and a touch of melodrama in his tone. "Call me _Mike_ if you must. Mikey is a child's name."

Theresa laughed drily. "The Drama Club got to you, I see."

He dropped the act and grinned, showing perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth. They were a bit unsettling to see in a teenager's mouth. "How could you tell?" he giggled.

"Wild guess," she said with a smirk.

"So," he said, leaning against the doorframe, "I'm assuming that you don't go by Cornchip anymore?"

"It's Theresa, now," she admitted. "But I'm letting Gu—I'm letting some elementary friends call me Corny."

Mikey—_Mike—_didn't miss a beat. "Gu? Is that what Gus is calling himself now?"

He didn't sound nearly as hesitant about speaking his name as Spinelli had. In fact, he didn't seem to have a problem with bringing up his old friend at all. Theresa was glad—knowing Mike, he'd probably forgiven the old gang mere moments after they'd had their falling out… whatever had happened.

Theresa flushed. "No, he's still Gus."

"How is he?"

"He's… he's great," she said slowly, a smile creeping back onto her lips. "He's still Gus, under all the muscle."

Mike sighed and smiled back thinly. "Good. I haven't talked to any of them in so long… I've had to watch my little buddy bulk up from afar."

Silence settled awkwardly between them as Mike was lost in memory and Theresa decided whether or not she should press the matter of the gang's separation. Mike didn't seem bitter like Gus had, or like he'd run away to avoid the conversation like Spinelli.

"Mike," she began, "if I ask why you haven't talked to them…"

"…Will I tell you?" he finished for her. "Sure. I imagine that neither Gus nor Spinelli were willing to talk about it."

"How'd you know—?"

He gave a wry grin. "I saw her bolting from the room as I approached. I thought it was because she saw me coming, but when I found _you_ here…"

Theresa sighed. "I see. Well…" she hesitated, "why _aren't_ you guys talking anymore?"

Mike gestured for her to sit back down. She did, and he took a chair next to her.

"Won't the teacher mind if we're still in here?" she wondered. Mike waved a hand airily.

"I'm always in here after school," he assured her. "It's fine."

He leaned a little closer to her and put on his best storytelling voice—deep and smooth, like how he sounded when he sang.

"At the beginning of ninth grade," he said, "we still hung out. Middle School had strained our friendships somewhat, but it was nothing we couldn't handle. When we came here…" he sighed. "Well, when we came here, we all started trying to _find_ ourselves. We hung out, but we also began splitting off. Vince started hanging out more with his friends on the basketball team—I was dividing my spare time between the after school Drama Club, Glee Club, Art Club, and Poetry Circle—and Gretchen discovered an obscure little clique made up of nerds of the highest order. Fellow geniuses, you know. At first she was offended that so many of them dared to be as smart as her—sometimes _smarter_—but then she began to relish the competition.

"The only three that still stuck together completely were TJ, Spinelli, and Gus. The latter mostly because he hadn't yet found a niche for himself—he may have been a scaredy-cat and a tad on the socially awkward side, but Gus is a smart cookie. Maybe not as smart as Gretchen… but he's an army buff, as you know. He knows everything there is to know about planes and other military vehicles—not to mention his talent for strategy and affinity for all things mechanical. Did you know he once took apart his watch and put it back together in one afternoon?"

Theresa laughed and nodded. She remembered that story—Gus had met her at Kelso's the next day, beaming with pride and babbling about the intricacies of all the little gears and chips.

"Anyway," Mike went on, "there didn't seem to be a place for Gus in the school, despite his very specific interests. There aren't a lot of military-inclined geeks around here. TJ and Spinelli were glad to have him around—they had their schools of interest, too, but, like Gus, hadn't found any cliques or clubs that shared them. Well, Spinelli _did_ join Art Club with me, but she doesn't come that often.

"The first reason why we split was the fact that we'd already been growing apart as the years progressed. Second—second was TJ and Spinelli's big fight..."

_Spinelli had put on makeup that day. Just a little lip-gloss and eyeliner, but it was noticeable all the same. She'd walked into school with her hips swaying and her hair curled prettily—confidence was written all over her, but anyone who knew her could see that something was wrong. She wasn't herself. She looked, for the first time in her life, utterly and truly frightened. _

_She'd walked up to TJ before first bell, and chatted with him at his locker. No one had been listening—no one else had been there to hear what she had to say. All anyone knew was that it ended with Spinelli almost swinging a punch at her friend—her stalking off in anger—TJ refusing to look her in the eye for the rest of the week—and the alien sound of Ashley Spinelli sobbing in the bathroom. _

_Rumours circulated soon afterwards among the ninth grade gossips; Spinelli and TJ had slept together and he didn't want to commit. TJ had told her she looked like a slut all dolled up like she was. Spinelli had finally snapped, killed the Detweiller family fish, and threatened TJ with a blowtorch if he didn't pay her back the lunch money she'd lent him. All of them were ridiculous, and few were close to the truth. Only their closest friends knew that—only the tight-knit group that was about to be torn apart._

_Mike had still been Mikey then, but only to TJ and the gang. TJ had been the one who'd told him what had really happened—he'd told him and Vince and Gus all at the same time (Spinelli had confessed to Gretchen). _

_Spinelli had approached him, TJ said, wearing the most makeup he'd ever seen her wear of her own free will. She looked good in it. Much better than when she'd been entered in that Beauty Pageant; even better than when she'd been made up for an experimental kiss with TJ back in fourth grade. Speaking of which… it was that kiss Spinelli had come to talk to him about._

_It seemed that she'd seen him chatting up Dinah Badger the day before—Dinah was a pretty blonde girl with a wicked streak the size of a thumbnail. TJ had been intending to ask Dinah to go with him to the Valentines Dance that was coming up._

_Spinelli hadn't liked that. She'd gone up to TJ's locker to stamp out Dinah's chances—to ask TJ to the dance herself—to finally confess the love she'd long kept bottled up. _

_And TJ had rejected her. Sorry, I don't feel the same—it's not you, it's me—not the right time for us—yadda, yadda, yadda. _

"_And what about this summer?" Spinelli had demanded heatedly. That past August, they'd shared a second kiss—a passing, innocent thing. Just mouth against mouth, no parted lips, no fourteen-year-olds' pathetic attempts at tongue. But it had been deep, and it had been real—yet TJ had refused to talk about it afterwards. He'd said he had to figure out how he felt. He had to figure out himself. Spinelli had grudgingly given him space, but now that he had been planning to go off with Dinah Badger without a word of explanation, of acknowledgement…_

"_That was… that was…" TJ had been at a loss for words. "That was nothing," he finally said. It had been the wrong thing to say. Spinelli hadn't talked to him again afterwards. She'd toughened up, she'd threatened to knock the teeth out of the heads of everyone who'd heard her cry, and she'd refused to mention her and TJ's argument again. Everyone had thought she'd get over it. But she was in eleventh grade now, and still hadn't spoken a single word to the boy who'd once been her best friend._

Theresa was shocked. Even in elementary school, even as a second-grade girl with no real concept of romance, she'd known that there was some deeper connection between TJ and Spinelli. To hear how easily the former Prankster Prince had just brushed that connection off… she was furious for Spinelli's sake.

"That's terrible," she said, finally.

Mike nodded sadly. "It was. Especially for us. We were forced to take sides. Everyone was secretly on Spinelli's, but we couldn't just abandon TJ like that. He'd made a mistake—so what? He was fourteen, and Dinah Badger is a sweet girl; no one could really blame him for liking her."

"Does he still?" Theresa wondered.

Mike shook his head. "Nah. They dated for a year and a half, and split on surprisingly good terms. Now; on with the story?" He raised an eyebrow. "Do you still want to hear?"

"Of course," she smiled grimly.

"Well, then," he cleared his throat and continued. "Vince took TJ's side easily. Gretchen was firmly on Spinelli's. Gus and I were the ones who couldn't make up our minds. Finally, we decided to bow out and take neutral ground—we weren't going to fight. We weren't going to let this stupid feud ruin our friendship.

"But then Vince and Spinelli started getting to each other. They were flinging insults and arguing like crazy—not just because of the split, but because Vince was getting increasingly more insufferable due to his basketball prowess. He was a victim of the high school system. It sounds horribly cliché, I know, but he started picking on Gus and me. Jokingly at first. The he asked us—ever so politely, I might add—to drop our so-called _geeky_ hobbies so that he looked better in front of his teammates. We refused. And he eventually stopped talking to us.

"He and Spinelli were still fighting—Spinelli blamed Vince's influence for TJ's insensitive treatment of her. Vince blamed Spinelli's tomboy nature. He said that maybe if she'd stopped acting like a butch TJ would've liked her."

"What?" Theresa's mouth hung open. She'd known that Vince could be a little hung-up on popularity, a little sports-obsessed, even a little self-absorbed at times, but never so… so…

"I told you," Mike said with a shrug. "He's changed. For the worst. That sort of thing happens, sometimes. From that day forth, though, Vince no longer bothered himself with the likes of his old friends.

"The catalyst that set the rest of us apart was Gretchen. After all the stress of being the best, all the competition… she became a little obsessive. She took on projects that were too much for her, she began to ignore us for gadgets and chemicals and complex formulae. Spinelli saw more than we did. She watched as Gretchen became addicted to her stress—she started taking caffeine pills to keep her up all night, and homemade sleeping pills to knock her out for the remaining few hours before school. She was irritable and tense and, eventually, she crashed.

"She had a nervous breakdown. Her parents decided to move and keep her homeschooled until she had recovered—they forbade any contact with anyone from her old life, to keep her from re-treading old ground. We haven't seen her since. TJ… TJ couldn't handle it, I guess…"

_TJ sat with Gus and Mike in the cafeteria, nibbling at his lunch. His sandy hair was a mess under his signature red hat—his freckles were even more pronounced against his pale face. He'd been white as a ghost ever since the news had reached them. Gretchen was gone. Gone to the country, for her health. She wasn't going to have contact with anyone from her old life until she had recovered, and even then, she was going to be transferred to another school. All of them knew that if and when she got better, she wouldn't have the strength to talk to them. Not without the whole experience coming back to her._

_That made three of TJ's oldest friends that were beyond his reach. Gretchen had gone, Spinelli wasn't speaking to him, and Vince had grown utterly apart from all of them. Even Gus and Mike, once inseparable, were speaking to each other less and less. The rift between them was colder, almost crueller than a big fight or a nervous breakdown—this was slow, inevitable, and agonizing. _

_TJ would've preferred a fight to this. _

_Eventually, Gus and Mike would go their separate ways. Knowing them, they'd be perfectly amicable about it—they'd still smile and say hi in the hallways. There would be no anger to overcome, no long-buried issue that could be resolved. If there had been, TJ could've fixed it. Hell, he was sure he could've fixed things between himself and Spinelli if Spinelli would only let him talk. He could've gotten Vince to come back for good if he could only get him on his own. Even Gretchen's problems could've been solved long ago if she'd given her friends the time of day, given TJ time to talk things out. There were too many "ifs". Too many things that TJ couldn't control. _

_At Third Street, things had been different. All their problems could be solved with some quick thinking, fast talking, and the knowledge that their friendship would last forever. TJ could still hatch a plan and make a speech… but nothing was set in stone anymore. Vince, Spinelli, and Gretchen were too far gone for him to fix things. Gus and Mike were only a few days away from parting forever. And where would that leave him? How would TJ fare, knowing that he'd been wrong all along, that friends aren't always forever? _

_He picked up his tray and got to his feet. "I'll see you guys later," he muttered, knowing full well that it was a lie._

_Quick and clean, he thought to himself as he left the cafeteria. Don't look back._

Theresa could see why Gus hadn't wanted to talk about it. The break sounded as if it had been incredibly painful—sure, Gus and Mike had been well-removed from the romantic drama, but Vince's rejection and Gretchen's breakdown must've been terrible to experience.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Mike shrugged. "I'm over it," he said softly. "And I'm glad you're still hanging out with Gus, at least."

"But this is terrible!" Theresa exclaimed. "You six were inseparable for all the years I knew you. You were closer than brothers and sisters—you practically read each other's minds!"

"People change," Mike said soothingly. "I've accepted that. You aren't still friends with everyone from elementary school, are you?"

She deflated a little. "No. But I never had friends the way _you_ had friends. The kind that would do anything for each other. The kind that would kill to make the others happy." She thought about her and Gus—about how hard they'd had to fight to remain friends despite the fact that their fathers were old rivals. They never would've been able to keep hanging out if TJ hadn't gotten LeMaise and Griswold to reconcile. He'd done that for Gus more than for her, but she'd always been grateful. She'd always admired how far he was willing to go for a friend.

"Sometimes you have to let go," Mike said. "Instead of being upset that you've lost something, be happy that you had it at all."

Theresa got to her feet. "You're probably right. It was great seeing you, Mike, but I've got to go."

She shouldered her bags as they exchanged farewells. As she left the room, and then the school, the ghost of a plan began to form in her mind.

_Sometimes you have to let go… and sometimes you have to fight,_ Theresa thought. _If they've all given up, maybe it's time someone else started fighting for them._


	4. Alliances

_THANKS to chickflick737 for giving me the kick in the ass I needed to continue! I'm a procrastinator to say the least _

_OK, I don't live in the US, so I'm not too familiar with the schedule system in high schools—I know the semester system, and I know the 2-Day system (4 classes on Day 1, the other 4 on Day 2), which are the two main things we use here in Canada. I'm giving Fifth Street High the 2-Day system, since that's what I'm most familiar with. Sorry if there's any confusion _

**Chapter 4**

Theresa arrived at school the next day ready to set her plan in motion. She'd mapped out the phases last night as she'd drifted off to sleep, repeating them in her mind until they stuck. It felt good to have a plan, to have a purpose—one thing she'd missed about Third Street Elementary was the significance the kid-community had given to each student. Everyone had a role to play there, everyone had a reason to be, from the Playground Royalty to the lowliest Kindergartener.

When she'd graduated to Middle School, Theresa had felt that significance fall away; she was no longer Cornchip Girl, the sweet supporter and silent heroine. She was Theresa LeMaise, and she was just another prepubescent searching for her place in the world. She had her passions, she had her friends, but her past as a jacks-playing pseudo-therapist had been pushed under the rug, and she was left without a real niche. Like Mike had told her the day before, _there weren't a lot of military-inclined geeks around here_—not that she would've called herself a geek; but, like Gus, she had a passion for strategy and loved to work with her hands. Her dream was to work in interior design or architecture—to build models and arrange buildings according to the geometric patterns and stratagem that life provided her.

She was working towards that end career, but in the meantime, her social niche had to be found and filled. She had always been an advice giver, a problem solver—if nothing else, an emotional supporter. There were certainly a shortage of people like that in Middle and High School—friends had each other's backs, of course, but everyone seemed to need just as much attention as they gave out. Everyone had their own problems, everyone had their own baggage. Theresa had hers, but she preferred to deal with it alone—she didn't want anyone else poking into her business, which left her completely willing to listen and help without expecting any help in return.

However, even the incessant drama queens that are teenage girls didn't need help all the time—Theresa was often left without anyone to comfort, without anyone to advise. Long-term projects like the one she had taken on with Gus' old friends were like unexpected little treasures.

And at the risk of sounding clichéd; this time, it was personal.

She reviewed the first stage of her plan in her head one more time as she stood at her locker. She was scribbling down notes on a piece of paper she'd taken from her binder. First, she had to lay the groundwork—reintroduce herself to TJ and Vince, get a little closer to Spinelli and Mike… possibly even contact Gretchen, wherever she had gone. That she would take care of today, maybe tomorrow. Next—

"Hey!" Gus appeared next to her, grinning. She quickly slipped the paper back into her binder. He made to lean against her locker, misjudged the distance, and lost his balance, catching himself with a nervous laugh. "What's up?"

Theresa couldn't help but laugh with him. Despite the physical differences, he really hadn't changed much in seven years.

"Nothing," she lied easily. "Getting ready for my classes. I've got Drafting today."

"Really? Oh, you'll love it—that was my favourite class in ninth grade."

"Yeah, I know. You told me all about the curriculum in Kelso's once, remember? That's what made me wanna take it."

His brow furrowed. "When did I tell you that?"

She shrugged. "You were still in ninth, I think—probably near the end of the year."

Gus made a face. "I want your memory."

"Maybe I'll give it to you for your birthday," she said, patting his arm teasingly.

Truth be told, she could still remember things that had happened to her in first grade. The memories were fuzzy and vague, but she remembered them. Her father had always said she was born one inch shy of having a photographic memory, and she was inclined to believe him. Gus had been aware of this for years, and never tried to conceal his jealousy at the fact.

Theresa reached for something at the back of her locker—a notebook she'd stashed there on the first day—and promptly dropped the binder she'd been holding. Loose-leaf paper she hadn't bothered to snap in went flying across the hallway.

"Oh, crap," she cried, scrambling to pick the papers up. Thankfully, she and Gus were early enough that the morning rush hadn't quite started, and nobody was in her way.

Without being asked, Gus dropped to his knees to help her.

"Thanks," she said, reaching for the papers he'd gathered. "I really should've snapped them in before."

Gus smiled. "Don't let it get to you. Hey, listen—I'll see you at lunch, okay? I've gotta fix some issues with my schedule. See you?"

"See you."

She finished taking the notebook out of her locker, shut and locked it, turned around, and was instantly glad that Gus had gone. Turning a corner and coming towards her was a boy dressed in a plain green t-shirt and jeans, his scruffy, sandy hair poking out underneath an unmistakable red cap. TJ Detweiller was still freckled, still a little chunky, still walking with his hands shoved down his pockets like he had for all the years Theresa had known him. Unlike his friends, he looked almost exactly the same as he had when he'd left Third Street—only older and taller.

He didn't catch her eye or recognize her as Spinelli and Mike had. In fact, he walked right by her without circumstance, apparently lost in thought. Not willing to lose her chance, Theresa grabbed her things and caught up with him.

"TJ?" she said, tapping him on the shoulder.

He stopped and turned to her, his expression the picture of confusion.

"Do I know you?" he squinted at her. "You look familiar…"

"It's… Cornchip Girl," she said, swallowing her pride and using her old name. Oddly enough, High School was making her regress more than it was helping her mature.

His eyes widened as his mouth split into an ear-to-ear grin. "Holy crap," he cried, "it's _you!_ You're here—jeez, it's been ages! Gus told us he…"

TJ's eyes darkened and his smile faded. "Anyways… I'll, uh, see you around, Cornchip."

Theresa was struck by a sudden, brilliant idea. She grabbed his arm—"Wait," she insisted. "I have a proposition for you."

He raised an eyebrow. "No offense, Chippy, but you're a little young for me."

"Not _that_ kind of proposition," she rolled her eyes. "Look; I heard what happened to you and your friends."

"I don't want to talk about them," he snapped.

He squirmed a little in her grip, but she didn't let go. From what Mike had told her, she'd guessed that TJ would be the most difficult to get to open up, but he was also the most important. In fact, the new plan that was beginning to form in her mind absolutely required that she deal with him first.

"I know it hurt you to lose them," she said gently. "I was talking to Mike, and—"

"Oh, you talked to him, did you?" he cut her off, sneering. "Of course he talked to _you._ He wouldn't even give me the time of day when we still hung out, but he'll talk to _you,_ no problem!"

"_Listen to me!"_ she hissed, tightening her grip. "TJ, I wanna help you! I heard what happened… and I want to fix it."

"You _can't._ Believe me, I tried. It just… they don't want to listen."

He sounded so defeated, Theresa almost let him go. But she didn't.

"They won't listen to _you,_" she admitted. "But they might listen to me. I'm still friends with Gus, and Mike and I were close enough at Third Street that he'll talk to me."

TJ stopped struggling. "They aren't the ones you need to worry about," he said slowly. "They're still on good terms. Spinelli, Vince and Gretchen, though…"

Theresa smiled. "That's where you come in. You're the man with the plan, right? And you knew them better than I did—you help me strategize, and I get them to open up. Between the two of us, we can reconcile the six of you by Christmas."

TJ looked away and chewed his lip.

"Please," she said. "I can't do this without your help."

He frowned at her. "Why do you even want to get involved? I mean, I know you're Gus' friend, but…"

Theresa sighed softly. "Because what you guys had… everyone at Third Street could see how special it was. Believe it or not, it's rare to find even _one_ friend like that—who you'd do anything for; who you know better than you know yourself. You were so lucky… and I'm not about to let something like that go to waste."

For a moment, the two of them were still and silent. The hall had filled by now—the crowds were converging on lockers and chattering so loud it was a wonder anyone could hear their own thoughts. But TJ and Theresa remained in their little standoff, oblivious to the world around them.

Finally, TJ grabbed her hand and loosened her grip, yanking his arm free.

"If I do this," he said, pointing a finger at her, "you have to promise to trust me. My plans might seem a little convoluted at first, but if you just go with it, it'll all work out."

She smiled, relieved. "I promise."

"Where should we meet?"

"Huh?"

"Where should we meet? To _plan?"_ he added, exasperatedly.

"Oh… um, I don't know. How about Kelso's after school? Or we can just e-mail each other."

TJ thought for a moment. "We'll figure it out tomorrow at lunch," he said. "Today, we don't do anything. I need time to prepare."

"Sounds good."

He laughed dryly, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know if this'll work."

"It has to work better than what I had originally."

"And what was that?"

She grinned. "Let's just say electromagnets would've been involved."

They laughed and parted ways, their minds racing. Neither noticed a lone piece of paper that had slid behind a garbage can, scribbled with notes on how to reconcile old, estranged friends. Neither saw the hunched, red-haired boy stoop to pick it up, his beady eyes raking the page eagerly.

"Oh," he chuckled, "this is _so_ moist…"


	5. Weems' Confession

_Again, thanks to all of you who are following and commenting! I know I never update quickly, so THANKS for the patience! PS. I'm trying to get this down to a chapter every 1 or 2 weeks, starting now. _

**Chapter 5**

When Gus sat down next to her at the cafeteria table, Lucille stared at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Hi," he smiled at Theresa before turning to her. "Hi, Lucille."

"Don't you have any other friends?" Lucille asked through a mouthful of cafeteria-grade fries.

"Yes," he said slowly, clearly unsure as to whether or not he should've been offended. "But I don't usually eat lunch with them. So here we are."

Lucille shrugged. "Whatever. 'Rese, pass me one of those chicken nuggets."

Theresa did. Then she turned to Gus, grinning like an idiot and giddy with excitement.

"Drafting is _great!"_ she told him, practically bouncing in her seat. "I _love_ the teacher, the projects sound fantastic… if it were possible to marry a class, I would _so_ do it!"

Gus laughed. "I knew you'd love it."

"Oh, I do." It felt weird gushing like that in front of Lucille. Their conversations were typically closer to dry banter. With Gus it was different—sometimes it felt like he was the only friend she could be honest around, without feeling like an idiot for baring her soul.

They chatted for a while longer, the conversation finally flowing properly without any party being left out. Theresa couldn't help but be glad that Lucille wasn't hogging all of Gus' attention like she had the day before—though she noticed that her friend was still flirting a little every time she spoke. She knew she shouldn't begrudge Lucille; she probably wasn't even thinking about what she was doing. But at the same time, every time the girl batted an eyelash, or placed a hand a little too close to one of Gus', Theresa felt an urge to kick her under the table.

Other than that, however, they were having a good time. So, of course, it wasn't long before they were interrupted.

"Hey, Corny—I didn't know you had a thing for Prankster Princes."

Theresa whipped around, recognizing the voice a split-second before she saw its owner. Randall Weems, his red hair much scragglier than it had been in elementary school and his hunch—though present—much less pronounced, was grinning down at her. He still looked like a weasel; the only real differences were the change in height and voice drop.

"Randall, leave her alone," Gus said tiredly. "Don't make me put you in a headlock again."

Theresa stifled a giggle at the thought of geeky little Gus putting the Snitch in a headlock. Randall sniffed and waved the comment off.

"I'm not here to stir up trouble, Griswold. Okay, maybe I am a _little,"_ he gave the three of them a sly, greasy look. "But would I be the Randall Weems you know and love if I wasn't?"

"Love? I don't think so," Gus half-stood up, supporting himself on the table. "Beat it."

"I just thought that the Chipster would want _this_ back," Randall pulled a piece of folded lined paper from his pocket. He flattened it out and cleared his throat. "Step 1: crack the tough ones first…"

Theresa yanked the paper out of his hands, tearing and crumpling it in the process. "Shut up, Randall," she hissed, her face burning with fury and embarrassment. "Where the hell did you find that?"

"You know, you should really watch where you leave—"

Theresa grabbed his arm and turned to Gus and Lucille, smiling nervously. "Give us a moment," she said, making sure to pinch Randall's arm hard as she dragged him out of the others' earshot.

"The _Chipster?"_ she whispered in disgust.

"It just came to me…" Randall rubbed his arm where she had pinched him. "Ow. You've got quite a grip, army brat."

"Shut up. _Where,"_ she brandished the torn remains of her scrapped plan, "did you find this?"

"Behind a garbage can upstairs. By your locker. I saw you drop it before you talked to Detweiller."

Theresa made a face. "How long were you watching me?"

He shrugged. "Long enough. Anyways—I was hoping I could blackmail you into doing something for me, but I suppose I'll have to settle for _asking,_ since you just destroyed the evidence."

"Blackmail me into what?" she asked warily.

Randall tried to skew his face into looking sympathetic. It didn't work. "Into _not_ getting TJ and his little pals back together."

She laughed drily. "Yeah. Sure. No."

"Please?"

"No! Why would you want me to do that anyways, it's not like the six of you were ever that close."

He snorted. "Where were _you?_ We had that whole frenemy thing going on during middle school. But that's not why I don't want them back together."

"Then why?"

For the first time—and, she suspected, the last—she saw Randall Weems displayed a genuine emotion; she was pretty sure it was heartbreak, though indigestion would've been her second guess.

"Because…" he said quietly, "because if they become friends again, then Detweiller and Spinelli will end up together. You know they will; it'd be the perfect, clichéd ending to their high school careers—childhood friends have falling out, discover they were in love all along, and kiss and make up in the final act. It's sickening," he sighed, "and I don't want it to happen."

"Why not?" Theresa thought she already knew the answer.

Randall gave her a look. "Why do you think? After they went their separate ways, surprisingly enough, Spinelli and I became friends. At first, I think she was just doing it to get back at TJ. But, believe it or not, I've changed since elementary school, Chippy—"

"Theresa."

"Whatever. Anyways; I've changed. A bit. At least, enough that Spinelli and I are kinda… an unofficial item. And by unofficial, I mean we're casual friends-on-the-side and I love her but she doesn't know."

Somehow, Theresa wasn't surprised. She still felt a little squicked out about it, though. Randall could say he had changed until he was blue in the face, but he still had that snitchy glint in his eyes that prevented her from fully trusting him.

"Well," she finally said, "I'm sorry about that. But I'm not going to stop my plans. I want them to get back together as _friends_, Randall. It's up to them if they want to be more than that. If you really want Spinelli… why don't you just try asking her out?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like that'd work."

"You can't get all up-in-arms about her reconciling with TJ unless you're prepared to make a move yourself," she insisted. "Otherwise, you're just preventing her from being happy."

Randall fixed her with one of the fiercest glares she'd ever received. "And what," he hissed, "makes you think that she'd be happy with him?"

Theresa set her jaw. She didn't really have an answer, but goddammit if she wasn't going to give him one.

"Because, unlike you, I know how these things work," she said.

Randall sighed. "No," he said stiffly. "I get it. The weasel doesn't get the girl."

He stalked off, leaving Theresa to return to her table. Gus and Lucille stared at her, trying to silently prod her for answers.

"So-o," Lucille prompted when nobody spoke. "What did the ginger want?"

"Nothing," Theresa muttered. "He found a… journal entry of mine that I did on loose-leaf. It must've fallen out of my binder this morning."

Gus raised an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't know you kept a journal."

She smiled thinly. "Well, I do. Now you know."

"Why'd you write it on loose leaf?" Lucille asked sceptically.

"Because I forgot the actual journal at home," Theresa answered. She'd always been a smooth liar, though she tried not to do it too often.

The others nodded and went back to their food, though Theresa got the feeling that the subject would be raised again—Gus hadn't looked all that convinced.

"Oh, hey," he said, after a few moment's silence. "D'you wanna meet at Kelso's later, Theresa? I haven't got any homework, for once."

"Sure! 4:00 sound good? I'll have to go home and grab some cash, first."

"Sounds like a plan," he grinned at her and they continued eating.

Theresa's head was still swimming with what Randall had said. It was true—she didn't know for sure that TJ and Spinelli would be any happier if they reconciled. Sure, TJ was pretty miserable, but other than a certain inability to talk about her feelings, Spinelli seemed absolutely fine. So did Gus and Mike. Vince was probably happy with his jock friends, and Gretchen… who knew about Gretchen? What if getting the old gang back together _wasn't_ a good idea? What if going their separate ways was good for them in the long run, no matter the painful way it had happened?

She tried to shake the idea off, but it refused to go away. She'd committed to this, and she wasn't about to back down because of the doubts of a bitter, lovesick Randall.

And yet she couldn't help but wonder…


	6. Strawberry Frappes Forever

_OMG I met a deadline! Yay me! I'll definitely be sticking to this schedule, too, since I've got the official synopsis for the rest of the story written up (chapter by chapter); there will be 10 chapters after this one if I stick to that outline. Thanks again for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming _

**Chapter 6**

There was something inherently magical about Kelso's. Something in the sticky remnants of milkshake spills, in the scent of new plastic and spearmint gum and the perpetually-running air-con resonated with every child who'd ever set foot inside. When Theresa reached it that afternoon, wallet in hand, she couldn't help but feel like she was settling into a warm bath; the familiar smell, the tinkling of the bell as she opened the door, the laminated tabletops and cushioned booths were all like a second home to her. She knew this shop like she knew the back of her hand.

Mr. Kelso was pouring some fifth graders sodas behind his counter. When he saw her, the crows' feet around his eyes crinkled and his moustache jumped a few centimeters to accommodate his wide smile.

"Hey, there, Theresa," he said cheerily. The ten-year-olds paid for their drinks and ducked into a nearby booth. "It's been a long time. Here to meet Gus?"

She smiled back, taking a seat at the counter. "Yeah. We didn't really have a chance to get together over the summer. How've you been, Mr. Kelso?"

"Can't complain," he shrugged. "Back's been bothering me a little bit, but what can you do, eh? I guess I'm just getting old." He winked and brought out a couple of shake glasses. "Two strawberry frappes, if I'm not mistaken?"

"You got it," she reached for her wallet and paid for both up front.

She didn't have to wait long for Gus—just as the first frappe was set in front of her, the bell clanged and the fifth graders in the booth gaped as the tall boy entered, clearly confused as to why a high school junior would bother coming into what was typically a middle schooler and under haunt.

Gus plopped himself onto the stool next to Theresa.

"Hey, thanks," he grinned, reaching playfully for her frappe. She smirked back at him and swatted his hand away gently.

"Nuh-uh," she said, taking a sip from the straw. "Yours is coming."

It took them half-an-hour to finish the frappes, their slurps interrupted by long minutes of conversation and laughter. By the end of it, however, they hadn't really said anything.

"...and then you slipped and nearly cracked your face on the floor!" Theresa was shaking, trying hard not to snort whipped cream out her nose. "Remember? And I freaked and wanted to call 911."

"And in the end," Gus affected a mournful tone, "I never _did_ manage to do that Russian squat-dance thing." His voice broke violently on _Russian_ and Theresa almost fell off her chair in a fit of giggles.

He patted her on the back. "Calm down, Corny," he chuckled, "you'll bust a gut."

She composed herself and grinned at him. "I've got guts of steel, Griswold," she said. "It'd take a funnier boy than you to bust one."

"You sure?" he tickled her ribcage lightly, and she convulsed, gasping with laughter.

"No fair!" she shrieked, and tickled him back. He giggled like a little kid, squirming in his seat.

Mr. Kelso approached their end of the counter, one eyebrow raised. "Hey, now," he said sternly. "No horsing around, you two."

They stopped, sat up straight and smiled at the old man sheepishly. He smiled back.

"I don't mean to be a killjoy," he said gently. "But try to sit like big kids, hmm?"

"Yes, Mr. Kelso," they said in unison, voices lilting like a chorus of reprimanded six-year-olds responding to a teacher's command. They glanced at each other and sniggered. Mr. Kelso laughed with them before heading back to the other side of the store.

"Okay," Gus wiped his eyes and got up, "I've gotta go to the bathroom. Be back in a second."

Theresa waved him away and slurped at the remnants of her frappe. The bell rang again and a familiar voice sounded behind her.

"That was certainly… adorable."

She turned to see TJ standing by her stool, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Aren't you a little old for tickle-fights, Chippy?"

"Aren't you a little old for spying?" she shot back, her cheeks burning red. "Don't you think that's a bit creepy?"

"Not at all," he smirked, taking the stool on her other side. "I was going to come in… but then I saw your little return to Kindergarten and decided not to interrupt. I'm surprised you didn't see me; I was standing right outside."

"My back's to the glass," she muttered, hunching her shoulders as Mr. Kelso returned.

"TJ, my, haven't seen you in a few weeks," the store owner said.

"My family went to the lake for a bit," TJ explained. "Could I have a coke, please?"

"Sure thing."

Theresa glanced over TJ's shoulder towards the bathroom. Gus wasn't done, yet, but he would be in a moment.

"I don't get you," she said to TJ. "One minute you're avoiding your old friends like crazy, the next you come in here knowing full well that Gus'll be back out here any second."

He shrugged, paying for his coke and taking a big gulp. "Talking to you this morning gave me a bit of a kick in the butt," he said. "And Gus, at least, isn't mad at me. Don't worry, Cornchip," he winked at her. "It's all part of the plan."

The bathroom door swung open and Gus stepped out, stopping briefly when he saw TJ.

"Hiya, Gus," the other boy said, raising his coke glass in greeting. "What's up?"

Gus smiled hesitantly, sitting down on the other side of Theresa. "Nothing much," he said. "What brings you here?"

"Thirst," TJ took another sip of the soda. "You?"

"I come here with Corny sometimes," Gus looked like he was trying to relax but couldn't quite remember how to do it.

"It's a good hangout. And I guess you guys have a history here, don't you?" TJ gestured towards Theresa.

She nodded and couldn't hide her creeping smile. She remembered that day—the day that the bully Fillmore had stolen her lunch and knocked her to the ground; the day that Gus, still small, still scared of his own shadow, had come to her rescue without a second thought. The day that she'd bought him a strawberry frappe in thanks—beginning the tradition—and they'd decided to stay friends in secret, despite the risks posed by their feuding fathers.

Gus caught her eye and grinned, clearly remembering the same events. TJ cleared his throat.

"Anyways… Gus; what've you been up to?"

The two boys chatted about school for a while, Theresa ducking so that they could look each other in the eye. Their conversation was strained at first, but that soon faded, giving way to the easy familiarity that never quite goes away between old friends. The pauses in their exchange stopped being awkward and became almost comfortable. Theresa felt sure now that whatever she and TJ came up with would work. Perhaps there was more bad blood between other members of the old gang, but if it only took a few minutes of conversation to do away with two years of silence, it shouldn't take too long to patch up an ancient argument.

Finally, TJ checked the time and said that he had to go home. The three of them said their goodbyes, TJ flashing Theresa a subtle reminder to meet him at lunch the next day. It wasn't until he was already gone that she realized she'd forgotten to ask him where.

Gus sighed—not unhappily—and checked his watch. "Wow. It's nearly 5," he said. "I should probably get going, too. My dad'll kill me if I haven't done my homework by 6:30."

"You have _homework?_ It's the second day of school!"

He scowled. "I know! But what can you do—the Math teachers like to get things started right away."

He made for his wallet—Theresa put a hand out to stop him.

"I paid before you got here," she said. "Don't worry."

"Do you want me to pay you back?"

She gave him a look. "When have I ever asked you to pay me back? Frappes are a complimentary part of this friendship; you should know that by now."

Gus smiled. "Thanks."

Their eyes met for a moment, just a moment, and Theresa felt her stomach knot unexpectedly. She broke their gaze and got to her feet. Gus did the same. She wondered if the frappe was making her sick.

The two of them waved goodbye to Mr. Kelso and walked outside. Gus pulled her into a one-armed hug, and her stomach knotted a second time.

"See you tomorrow, Corny," he told her, stepping out of the hug.

"Bye," she said. Then, "Does your stomach feel weird at all? I think it might've been the frappe."

His brow furrowed. "No. maybe you're getting sick."

"I probably just ate too much," she said quickly. "See you."

They turned away from each other and went their separate ways. Theresa frowned. What the hell had that been? She must've been sick; it hadn't felt like overeating usually did. Her stomach hadn't gurgled as much as it had… flipped. Her heart had beaten a little faster, but she hadn't felt like throwing up. Things had briefly seemed a little brighter; or perhaps she'd never noticed just how blue Gus' eyes were.

She stopped. Her thoughts travelled to April of that past year, when Lucille had dated a high school frosh named Isaac. Lucille had insisted that his eyes were a bright and beautiful shade of green, when all Theresa saw was the colour of muddy pondwater. She'd described in agonizing detail how amazing it felt to kiss him, how her ribcage felt like it was going to splinter from the force of her heart, how her stomach felt like a salsa-dancer trapped in her gut.

Theresa's frowned deepened. Was that what she had felt? Was that what Lucille had been talking about? Could that sort of feeling really be so abrupt, so out of the blue?

Her stomach churned, and all of a sudden, she really did feel sick.

She tried to shake off the thought as she continued home. It didn't work.


	7. Enter Spotted Dove Pt 1

_AN: FINALLY! I HAVE RETURNED! Sorry guys, my computer caught another virus _ _ I'm probably going to have to replace it soon. I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting, I really am – because of the wait, I'm splitting this chapter into 2 parts so I can get this half out to you quicker… think of it as a teaser. Part 2 will be with you shortly. _

**Chapter 7, Part 1**

Theresa spent the next morning going to great lengths to avoid looking Gus in the eye, which proved rather difficult. Later, she had to devote her attentions to avoid answering Lucille's probing questions as to why. Sitting through math class with her was like being in the hotseat during a police interrogation—and her friend wasn't even bothering to play Good Cop.

"Seriously, you weren't even looking at him," Lucille was saying. Theresa was hunched over, staring at her paper as if trying to make it burst into flame. "You'd think the two of you had made out last night or something." She gasped. "Oh, my god! You didn't! Did you? I knew it."

"Knew what?" Theresa snapped. "I didn't make out with _anybody."_

"But you and him did _something."_

"Leave me alone."

"You're blushing, 'Rese."

Theresa slammed her pencil down and turned to glare at Lucille, who was grinning like an idiot.

"Look," she said calmly, "I don't want to talk about it. You'll just go blabbing it to the entire school if I do, anyway."

"Only if it's interesting," Lucille laughed. At Theresa's pointed silence, her expression sobered, and she poked her friend in the arm with the eraser butt of her pencil.

"I promise I won't tell, 'Rese," she said.

Theresa sighed and looked at her again. She was making her _sincere_ face—it looked fake, complete with pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes, but Theresa knew from experience that the expression was genuine.

"Okay," she said slowly, and tore a chunk from the end of her paper. She scribbled a quick note on it.

_I think I might have a LITTLE crush on Gus._

Lucille snatched it from her hand. When she read it, she gave a loud squeal and wrote a reply.

_I KNEW IT! So you DID kiss him yesterday?_

_NO__. He hugged me goodbye. It felt good. _

_Theresa loves Gussy, Theresa lov—_

Theresa grabbed the paper from Lucille and crumpled it up, blushing furiously as she stuffed it into her pocket. "Don't. Say. Anything," she warned her friend through gritted teeth. "I swear, I will steal one of my dad's guns and hunt you down."

"Death threats, 'Rese? Do you really have that little faith in me?" Lucille nodded solemnly. "I promise. I won't say a word. And if I do, you have permission to sic Gus on me."

By the time lunch rolled around, Theresa was all-too glad to begin her search for TJ. She told Lucille that she had to see the councillor about switching one of her classes. After doing a quick visual sweep of the cafeteria, and inspecting most of the school's winding corridors, she finally found him, munching on a sandwich in an empty history classroom. She sat down beside him.

"So, do we have anything yet?" she asked. "A plan, I mean?"

He nodded. "You," he said through a mouthful of what smelled like egg salad, "are going to convince Vince and Gretchen to give the rest of us the time of day. I'll take care of Spinelli and the other two."

"And then what?"

TJ grinned, "Once we've got them all ready to talk, I'll invite Spinelli, Gus, and Mike to the art room for some reconciliatory conversation—you'll do the same with Vince, and ask Gretchen to webchat with you at the same time. We'll force them to stay there until we've talked things out."

"And…?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Then we'll skip off into the sunset singing Kumbaya. What do you want me to say?"

Theresa shrugged. "I don't know. It just seems so… simple for a TJ plan."

He thought for a moment. Then he smiled slyly. "Do you want a codename?"

"Hell yes!" she grinned. "Can I be Spotted Dove?"

"Why?"

Her smile widened. "They're my favourite bird. Plus, they eat cracked corn."

He laughed. "Okay. You're Spotted Dove—and I'll be Red Falcon."

"Sweet."

They spent the rest of lunch chatting—sometimes returning to their plan and discussing approach tactics for Vince, Gretchen, and Spinelli, but mostly talking about school and, more often than not, Gus, the one person they really had in common.

"It feels awful to say," TJ said at one point, "but I never found myself missing him as much. I always told myself it was because I could've easily gone back and talked to him—I mean, I did yesterday, didn't I? But… sometimes I wonder if it's because the two of us weren't that great friends in the first place."

"I doubt it," Theresa said. "You seemed just as close with him as you did with the others."

"You think so? It didn't always feel like that to me." He frowned. "What if… what if it's better this way? I mean, they all seem pretty happy, don't they?"

Theresa bit her lip. "Ye-es, but—"

"Of course we should still clear the air, I don't want us to go into senior year with all this bad blood still between us, but maybe we should just leave it at that. I mean, Vince turned into such a jerk, I don't even know if I _want_ us to be friends anymore, and Gretchen isn't coming back either way," his eyes trailed to his lap, "and I think Spinelli would be better off without me."

"But you were made for each other!" Theresa blurted. TJ blinked, clearly taken aback, and she blushed.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Not trying to sound corny—"

"Pun intended?"

"Ha ha, no. Not trying to sound… I dunno, clichéd, but you guys were perfect together. At least you were when I knew you."

TJ laughed drily. "That was five years ago. A lot has changed. Spinelli's changed." He frowned. "She's been hanging out with Randall, for god's sake! I mean, this is the guy she used to pummel just for looking at her wrong—and she's friends with him!" He sighed. "Maybe I should just forget about patching things up with Spinelli."

Theresa groaned. How had this gone so south so fast? When had TJ Detweiller, the spontaneous, fun-loving man-with-the-plan, become so goddamn wishy-washy?

"TJ, I'm doing this for _all_ of your sakes," she snapped, "and I'm not going to cut Spinelli out of the deal because you think she's changed too much. What about Vince and Gretchen? They've changed a lot from what I've heard, and you still want to deal with them."

"Spinelli's… different."

"And why is that?"

"Don't even go there, Cornchip; you know why!"

"Of course I know why! Everyone knows why! There are blind, deaf and dumb monks in Tibet who know why! But if this… reconciliation is gonna go down—which it _is—_I think you'd better be prepared to say it out loud." She took a breath. "And it's _Theresa!"_

He didn't say anything. They sat there and glared at each other for a moment before Theresa finally broke the silence.

"Okay, look," she said gently, "I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you this, but if that's what it's going to take, so be it. If you don't make up with Spinelli, not only will you never get closure, but… I have it on good authority that you're not the only one who has feelings for her."

TJ didn't meet her eye. "So what?" he mumbled.

"_So,_ this other guy just might make a move."

"Again, I must ask—so what?" He was staring at his shoes now.

Theresa's brow furrowed. "What more do you want? If Spinelli's changed so much, maybe she's changed enough to try dating someone who isn't you. And I know you still like her, TJ."

"What does that matter? If she's moved on, who am I to stop her? I don't own her."

"But what if—"

"No." TJ looked up, expression stern. "I can't. It's been too long. I wouldn't even know what to say to her after all this time."

Theresa sighed. "That's really how you feel?"

"Yes, it is."

"You want to make up with everyone… except Spinelli."

"That's right."

"And if this other guy asks her out and she decides to give it a shot, you'll be okay with that."

"You got it."

"Okay."

The bell rang, and both of them got to their feet and gathered their things in silence. As they reached the door to the bustling hallway, Theresa stopped in her tracks and gave TJ a sidelong glance.

"Oh, and one more thing," she said sweetly. "The other guy is Randall."

"Forget everything I just said."


	8. Enter Spotted Dove, Pt 2

_AN: I apologize for the extremely long wait, but I won't bore you with excuses at this point. My personal issues aren't entirely resolved, but to be honest, finishing this chapter was rather therapeutic. Point is I'm back… and here's a Christmas present for y'all. Cheers!_

**Chapter 7, Part 2**

Theresa and TJ agreed to initiate the plan after school. He was going to catch Mikey in the Art room at three, and she was going to corner Vince in the school gym after his final period PE class. In all honesty, this was the part she'd been looking the least forward to, but there was nothing else for it—TJ refused to talk to Vince until some sort of understanding had been reached.

"I know he was a good kid when you knew him," TJ had warned her before they'd split up, "but he's changed, trust me. Things got pretty ugly between us by the end—and after all the things he said…" he shook his head, scowling. "Let me tell you, guy's lucky I'm not the one talking to him today, or I might just strangle him."

Theresa had to admit, she was nervous about approaching Vince. Back in elementary school, he had seemed nice, but she'd always felt a bit intimidated by him. Especially when she'd watch him get competitive—the way his grin would turn wicked, his eyes flashing at his opponent like he was sizing up his prey… it had scared her pretty bad, but she'd tried not to let it show. After all, he'd been Gus' friend, and he'd been fairly pleasant to her the few times they'd interacted. Now, though… now those buffers were gone. She'd have to talk to the new Vince—the cruel, predatory, downright _scary_ Vince.

When the 3 o'clock bell rang, Theresa blanched and made to say quick goodbye to Lucille, who wasn't paying attention—her eyes were firmly fixed on a rather adorable brunette boy who was not-so-subtly eyeing her from across the classroom.

"I'll see you later, Luce," Theresa said, shouldering her bag.

"Mm-hmm," Lucille smiled at the boy and gathered her mass of curly hair over one shoulder, exposing the one nearest to him. Glad for the opportunity to slink away relatively unnoticed and unquestioned, Theresa made to turn, but Lucille turned at the last moment, leaving the boy looking crestfallen at the sudden loss of her attentions.

"Oh, before I forget!" she yelped. "I know I promised not to say anything, but please, _please,_ keep me updated on the whole situation with… you know…" she lowered her voice and waggled her eyebrows, "the G-word."

Theresa felt her face grow hot. "How 'bout _no?"_ she muttered. "There isn't even a situation to update—we're friends, and that's how we're going to stay."

Lucille pouted. "Oh, come on! You've clearly got the hots for him…"

"I don't have—who says _hots_ anymore?"

"Cool people. 'Rese, look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel all kinds of hot and bothered when you see the guy."

"I—"

"And who could blame you? I don't know what he was like back in elementary, but the boy is _smokin'_ now! Well, his face could use some work, and who are we kidding, those glasses just scream dork—but the rest of him is fantastic."

"Lucille, please be quiet!" Theresa knew she had to move fast if she wanted to catch Vince before he went to the showers, but her desire to set her friend straight was overriding her plans. "Look, I'll admit I've got a little crush on him," she said quietly, "but nothing's gonna happen. It's just… I don't know, hormones or something. It's nothing serious. Besides, why would any junior want to go out with a freshman?"

"So you _do_ want to date him?"

"No I _don't_, and as much as I would love to stay here and repeat myself, I'm gonna be late for… stuff… if I don't leave right now. So bye."

Lucille smiled sheepishly, pulling her sincere face again. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just so excited you finally have a crush! But I promise to back down… no matter how tantalizing the matter is." She blinked widened eyes up at her friend. "Am I forgiven?"

Theresa grinned. "Of course you are. But I really do have to go."

"Okay, I'll see you, then!"

"See you!"

Theresa left the room (and Lucille and her brunette beau, who it appeared had been waiting for their conversation to end) and began her hasty speed-walked to the gym—but no sooner had she rounded her first corner than she ran straight in to a muscled wall of solid back.

"Oof—sorry!" she blurted, dashing around her human roadblock without giving them a second glance.

"Theresa, hey, what's the rush?"

She stopped and whirled around in a smooth pivot to face Gus, the wall, staring at her with a bemused smile on his face. Her stomach did a happy little dance, and she cursed it—what was _wrong_ with her all of a sudden?

"Oh—Gus—hi," she said quickly. "Um, I'm just heading out. I got a lot of homework today, and I figured I'd get started… immediately. Bye!"

"Hold on a second—where were you at lunch today?"

"Oh, I had to talk to my counsellor about switching a class."

Gus frowned. "What's the matter?"

"What?"

"You're dancing around like you have to pee."

Theresa stopped fidgeting and stood stock-still—_called to attention,_ she thought, smiling apologetically. Gus smiled back.

"So how was your day?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

"Oh, um, it was good—look, Gus, I really have to go…"

"I'll walk you out," he said quickly, taking a step towards her.

"Um, sure," she grinned despite herself as they began walking down the hallway, feeling her cheeks growing warm again as his arm brushed against hers. When he started to tell her about his day, she couldn't meet his eye again out of fear that he might notice how flustered she was becoming. _Why, oh why, did I have to start crushing on _Gus,_ of all people?_ she thought mournfully. She didn't know if she could stand feeling this awkward around him for much longer.

"… And my History teacher, Mr. Dawson, hates me," Gus was saying. "I mean _really_ hates me. I corrected him during the first class about the types of planes the Germans used during the London Blitz, and today he wouldn't pick me to answer _any_ question, even if I was the only one with my hand in the air."

"You corrected him? Jeez, Gus, what happened to you?"

"I have no clue. I think I got stupider."

"Well, yeah, correcting the teacher on the first day probably _wasn't_ the smartest idea in the world," Theresa chuckled, still not looking at him.

"No kidding," he laughed with her. She glanced up at him, taking in his gaze and his goofy smile all at once.

_What was Lucille talking about? His face is perfect. _

Realizing that she was staring, Theresa quickly looked away, pretending to be fiddling with her watch as she fought to control her fluttering heart. _Right, enough lollygagging. Got to get to the gym. _"Oh, I just remembered!" she cried, freezing in her tracks. "I forgot my textbook in my locker! I'm sorry, I've gotta go back and get it or I'm sunk for tonight."

"Oh," Gus looked a little disappointed. "Okay. Well, I've gotta head home, so I'll, uh, see you later."

"Yeah, I'll see you." She gave him a little wave, relief that she was free to pursue her plan and a fierce desire to keep walking with Gus battling it out inside of her as she turned around and began to once more make her way to the gym.

She suspected that Vince was still in the showers—for all her detours, it was still only about ten minutes past 3 when she arrived at the gym. _3:11, 19 seconds and counting, to be exact,_ she thought as she glanced at her watch. She situated herself against the wall of lockers to the far left of the locker-room doors, ready to pounce as soon as she caught sight of Vince. _3:11, 28 seconds and counting. _

"Well, well, if it isn't the Heartbreak Kid," a familiar slick voice greeted her. Theresa looked up to see Randall standing before her, the locker-room door swinging closed behind him. His hair was damp—a towel hung around his neck. He flashed her a bitter smile as he approached her. "I guess you're here for LaSalle."

"Yup," she said stiffly. She wasn't about to let Randall get to her today. "I guess you're here to try to convince me otherwise."

He put a hand to his heart in mock anguish. "You wound me, Chippy. Can't a guy just say hi to his favourite froshie?"

"Go away, Randall. I'm not going to change my mind about this."

"Actually, I kinda want to watch. It's not every day you get to see a Detweiller plan fall apart, after all."

Theresa frowned at him. "It's not _to_day, either. What makes you so sure this won't work?"

Randall cocked an eyebrow. "Okay, I'm assuming you don't know _why_ they aren't friends anymore, because if you did, you'd know that Vincent LaSalle has long-since passed the point of no return as far as human decency goes."

"You're just trying to scare me—he can't be that bad."

"Oh yeah? Try him." Randall nodded his head towards the door—a small throng of boys, some still towelling their faces and hair, emerged from it. They all walked with the lazy swagger Theresa associated with jerk jocks and their ilk. At the head of the group was a tall, dark-skinned boy with a cocky grin and dark, laughing eyes—like TJ and Randall, athletic prodigy Vince LaSalle didn't appear to have changed much since elementary school. Physically, at least.

"Go ahead," Randall smirked, leaning back against the lockers. "I'll keep watch."

Theresa shot him a glare before composing herself and taking a step towards the boys. They slowed and exchanged a couple of amused glances as they caught sight of the girl approaching them.

"Vince?" she called. "Um, Vince?"

That stopped the entire group dead in their tracks. They turned as one to stare her down, some of them already laughing at the thought of a freshman _girl_ referring to one of their own by name. Vince smirked at her, cocking an eyebrow and looking at her as if she were little more than dirt under his cleat.

"Yeah? Who the hell are you?" he asked.

"Um…" she felt her face growing hot, and all of a sudden there was nothing she wanted more than to sink into the ground and die. "Uh, I was just wondering if I could… talk to you… for a second…"

Vince and his friends' snickering grew louder.

"Sure, sounds like fun, huh, Vin?" one of the other boys nudged Vince's shoulder.

"What for, froshie?" Vince asked jeeringly.

"W-well," Theresa wished they would stop laughing, "um, I don't know if you, uh, remember me, but w-we were at Third Street together…"

"You and half the student body. So what?"

They thought she was pathetic. The only reason they were still here was because they wanted to laugh at her. "M-my name used to be… um…"

"Spit it out, kid, I don't got all day."

The boy who had nudged Vince muttered something to one of his friends—they both chuckled and cast Theresa cruel grins that made her legs whither. She shuddered and balled her hands into fists. She'd gotten over her shyness in middle school, and she wasn't about to slip back into that mousy, mild-mannered frame of mind just because a bunch of stupid boys laughed at her.

"I'm Cornchip Girl," she said, probably a bit louder than she should've, "and I need to talk to you. It'll just take a second."

Vince blinked. His friends burst out laughing anew, but his expression grew suspicious. He stared at her for a moment then shook his head. Theresa frowned.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," she said firmly.

"Vin, this kid is hilarious!" one of them said. "Go ahead, frosh, talk."

"No," Vince snapped. "This is stupid, you guys, let's go."

"Oh, come on—"

"We're going."

Vince, refusing to meet Theresa's eye, attempted to lead his friends away, but they were dallying, still laughing and mockingly pleading with Theresa to keep talking. Vince looked over her shoulder and, catching sight of Randall and apparently sensing an opportunity to redirect everyone's attention, began shouting.

"Hey, what the hell are you lookin' at, Weasel?" he jeered. "Go suck a—!"

The other boys immediately followed suit, drowning out even Vince's loud voice. As their leader began walking away they quickly followed suit, cussing out Randall until the last of them had passed from sight. Feeling defeated, irritated and a little confused, Theresa turned around and walked back towards the wet-haired ginger where he leaned against the lockers. Randall was examining his chewed nails, apparently unperturbed by the verbal assault he'd just received.

"I told you," he said lightly as Theresa approached him. "Didn't I tell you?"

"It wasn't—"

"—That bad?" Randall looked at her. "Let me guess—you felt helpless. Pathetic. Like a loser. You wanted to shrink and-or disappear and never crawl back out of your hole again—am I getting warm?"

"I guess… that's not the first time they've done that to you, huh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Try every day for two years. Four if you count just the guys who aren't Vince. Sixteen if you count everyone else in the world. I don't know if you've noticed, Chippy, but I'm not exactly what you'd call well-loved." He shrugged. "I'm used to it."

Theresa couldn't help it. Her heart went out to him. For all that he was an annoying, lying, two-timing little snitch and all-around weasel in every sense of the word, he didn't deserve… well, he didn't _quite_ deserve… well, she felt bad for him at any rate.

Apparently sensing her sympathy, Randall looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"Well, I'd love to stay and mock your attempts at plotting some more, but I've gotta jet," he said flatly. He brushed past her and slunk out of sight without another word. Theresa sighed, slumping against the lockers and feeling thoroughly defeated. She couldn't just let Vince go like that—after trying so hard to convince TJ that the plan would work, how could she go to him and admit that she had failed?—but there was no way she would get anything out of him so long as he was surrounded by his buddies. There had to be a way for her to get him alone—but how?

She smiled wickedly to herself as an idea hit her. Of course—after all, what mission was complete without a little reconnaissance work?


End file.
